


when i let go

by Anonymous



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, No Plot/Plotless, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He deserves to go through this, as a punishment for daring to think those kind of thoughts.





	when i let go

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: deals with thoughts concerning rail suicide as well as automutilation by means of burns. Read at your own risk.  
Please, if you feel like you cannot handle this fic, do not put yourself through this. It's not worth it, I promise.

They say a train driver is not a real train driver until he experiences a rail suicide. That's all Pierre can think about as he gets in the shower. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to have these thoughts, and yet they occupy is mind, fill his head until there's no space left for anything else. So he reminds himself: a train driver is not a real train driver until he's haunted by images of body parts strewn across railway tracks when he closes his eyes at night. He wouldn't wish that upon anyone, and that's the only thing that keeps him going.

He turns the shower knob all the way to the left in one swift motion and waits for what he knows is going to come. His entire body tenses in anticipation, the stream of water seemingly held back for a moment as a reaction to the sudden change in temperature settings. It hampers, leaving him exposed to the damp air for far too long before water cascades down his shoulders. The drops feel icy cold against his dry skin and for a moment he believes he’s made a mistake until, suddenly, his entire body is on fire. Pain sears through him like a branding iron, coursing through his veins and consuming him completely. He takes his lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard: one type of pain to distract him from another. This is what it must feel like: driving at two hundred miles an hour, having to pull the safety lever - Pierre has read some drivers have dubbed it the 'dead man lever'. This is what it must feel like to have someone stand in front of your train. Someone who has no intentions to move. His hands are shaking, skin growing increasingly red as steam curls off of his arms and accumulates against the ceiling. He’s unable to finish even a single thought as his mind concedes to the scalding torment. Every inch of him is begging to _get the fuck out of here_ and yet he doesn’t, tensing all of his muscles to resist against his instincts instead. _You deserve this_, he tells himself. And he does. Nausea claws at his throat and he inhales deeply in an attempt to calm himself down but all he that enters his lungs is fire, the steam burning like acid in his chest. The world goes dark as he screws his eyes shut against the pain and he coughs but it only hurts more, irritating his entire airway until he’s choking and coughing. It sends him crashing to the shower tray, gasping for air other than the dense fog filling up the bathroom. He deserves to go through this, as a punishment for daring to think those kind of thoughts. 

That poor driver is going to work and he wants to do his job and he wants to come home like the way he left in the morning. Come home and be happy. He doesn’t want to come down dull, morbid, upset. He doesn’t want any of that. And Pierre doesn't want it either. 


End file.
